


Buttercup

by tackytiger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Crossgen Sex, Endgame Drarry, Hate Sex, Head Auror Harry Potter, Lawyer Draco Malfoy, Lawyer Scorpius Malfoy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Moral Ambiguity, Morally Dubious Everyone, Not Infidelity But Hurt Feelings, Powerful Harry Potter, Revenge Sex, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 04:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20147374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/pseuds/tackytiger
Summary: Scorpius shoulders his way through the crowd, making for the bar just behind Harry. He's waiting for something—anything—but it's still a delicious shock to feel Harry's fingers against the skin of his wrist, dipping maddeningly slow under the cuff of his robe. Scorpius half-turns, raises that pale eyebrow exactly as the mirror had shown him, and lets the sneer drip from his mouth like a curse."Potter."





	Buttercup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quicksilvermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quicksilvermaid/gifts).

> To quicksilvermaid: for all the flailing, shouting, generosity, and understanding. And the words, of course, all those glorious words you've given us! Thank you taking this fic exactly where it should have gone.
> 
> Huge thanks to icarusinflight for your insight and guidance, and such a thorough and helpful betaread. Any remaining mistakes or stylistic quirks are all mine!
> 
> This was written in response to prompt S28, which asked for revenge seduction. I hope you enjoy it.

He practices for ages in front of the mirror in his bathroom at the Manor, watching every plane of his own face shift and harden, over and over and over.

"Potter." He spits it out, like it means nothing at all, like it's not something he's had to work at twisting his tongue around. "Potter, Potter, Potter."

* * *

The pub is crowded with end-of-shift Aurors pressed too close together at the bar, throats working hard as they drink steadily, with intent. The air is steamy, and stinks of sweat and nerves and the sweetish rot of old hexes. It's the end of a hard week.

Scorpius is later than usual—the lawyers tend to call in for a few swift ones after work on a Friday, but they don't normally stay once the evening shift Aurors spill in around 11pm—but Harry's exactly where Scorpius knew he would be. He's standing in a tight knot of men at the curved end of the bar, the same men he's been fighting alongside—and drinking to forget with—ever since he left Hogwarts. 

Harry is pushing fifty now, the raven's wing sheen of his hair gilded with silver at the temples, his lean Seeker's muscles hardened and refined into something altogether more imposing. As Scorpius draws near, Harry stretches and yawns, the sleek muscles in his back shifting with every movement. He is devastating, powerful and arresting in the hazy gold of the pub candles, and Scorpius feels his mouth go dry with the force of his want.

Scorpius shoulders his way through the crowd, making for the bar just behind Harry. He's waiting for something—anything—but it's still a delicious shock to feel Harry's fingers against the skin of his wrist, dipping maddeningly slow under the cuff of his robe. Scorpius half-turns, raises that pale eyebrow exactly as the mirror had shown him, and lets the sneer drip from his mouth like a curse. 

"Potter."

Harry laughs at that, the bastard, the sound bright and amused and cruel. His grip on Scorpius tightens, so that Scorpius can feel the rasp of Harry's wand callouses licking over the skin of his wrist. He remembers the rough glide of that same hand on his cock, against his throat, on the butter-soft skin of the crease of his inner thigh. He remembers his own tongue lapping over the knuckles of that hand, chasing every last drop of his own come while Harry watched, eyes narrowed with approval and desire and a certain reluctant sort of tenderness. He remembers the sound of Harry fucking his cock into the lube-slick heat of his own fist, while Scorpius whimpered and begged beneath him. It's desperately inappropriate, and not at all what he came here for. He curses the treacherous flush that rises in his cheeks, and summons every vestige of chilly Malfoy hauteur as he leans in to Harry.

"You set me up, Potter."

Harry has him pinned to the bar before he can breathe out, with his back jammed up against the carved wooden countertop and the press of Harry's body a barely-veiled threat at his front. Harry's mouth is at his ear, his voice lethal and still ringing with that sharp, dismissive amusement. "You called me Harry when my tongue was up your arse."

"Keep your voice down, for fuck's sake, Potter. Or do you _want_ your team to know that you had your cock sucked by the junior defence lawyer on one your biggest cases? Sleeping with the enemy, Potter—what _would_ the _Prophet_ think?"

"The question is, _Malfoy_, do you want the Wizengamot to find out that you seduced the Head Auror so you could snoop through his desk and read highly classified files?"

Scorpius swallows hard at that, but even the wash of terror that follows Harry's words can't make him miss the way Harry's eyes drop helplessly to follow the movement of his throat. 

"Did you think I wouldn't know what you were doing, Scorpius? I've known you since you were eleven years old. And I know your amoral prick of a father. You turn up at my house with that fucking Muggle suit of his on—that shirt was practically see-through, for fuck's sake! You're so _obvious_. Sitting there, drinking my wine and licking your lips and talking about how people tell you that you look just like your father. And you do, you really do look just like him. Was that the plan—his words in your mouth? You two decided that I wouldn't be able to resist a Malfoy? You stupid child."

Harry steps away, just a fraction, so he can see Scorpius properly. His eyes are alert, assessing.

"Those files were charmed to my personal magical signature. Anyone who viewed them without authorisation would only be able to see false information. But then, you found that out in front of the whole Wizengamot, didn't you? That must have been embarrassing for Malfoy and Son Solicitors."

Scorpius is scarlet with rage and humiliation, past caring about the looks they're getting from Harry's colleagues. He feels impotent, overwhelmed—like a small, insignificant, petty thing—so he summons the only weapon he has to fight with. He relaxes his body, going lax and pliant, pushing his elbows back onto the bar and letting the fabric of his shirt strain obscenely over the planes of his chest. The angle brings his hips forward, and even Harry can't quite bite back his gasp at the contact. He thinks Scorpius is _obvious_? Scorpius will show him the meaning of the word.

"It worked though, didn't it, Harry? The seduction, I mean. You had your tongue in my mouth and your hand down my trousers within five minutes." He slides his knee between Harry's legs, allowing himself a sigh of relief at the friction of Harry's thigh against his cock. He starts to press harder—minute, feverish rolls of his hips.

"From the sounds of things, you've never been able to control yourself around a Malfoy. I suppose I should be lucky you were only trying to fuck me instead of slice me open."

Harry's eyes darken, and his magic jolts in an uncontrolled, smoky sizzle from the tips of his fingers as he slowly, deliberately flicks at Scorpius' nipple through his shirt. He smiles reassuringly back at his mates, gives them a nod and a wink and that blazing Harry Potter smile, and he takes Scorpius by the waist and just rips him out of there in a violently possessive Side-Along, until they're tumbling to a standstill in Harry's sitting room.

* * *

Scorpius expects it to be a frenzy of heat and hunger, like the last time, but Harry moves slowly, his hands and mouth a tantalising torture. Scorpius can still feel the tense crackle of Harry's magic skittering across his skin. He shivers at the feel of it, and at the thought of what that power can do. One gentle flick of Harry's finger and Scorpius is propelled back onto the couch, skin prickling in anticipation as he watches Harry stalk across the room towards him, rolling up his sleeves. A whispered spell, the insistent tug of more of Harry's magic, and Scorpius is naked, embarrassingly hard, his cock leaking a gleaming, sticky patch against his stomach. 

The lights are all blazing, and there's nowhere to hide from Harry's gaze, so Scorpius arches into it, accepts the weight of those speculative, grass-green eyes, offers himself up to it. It's a relief, not to hide from it anymore. He strokes himself, breath stuttering at the intimate whisper of skin on skin, and asks for what he wants. "Harry? Touch me."

That earns him, finally, a proper smile. 

* * *

Harry doesn't even take his clothes off, but he maps every inch of Scorpius with his mouth and hands so thoroughly that Scorpius feels like he's going to shake out of his skin with frustration and need. Harry is relentless, grazing bruises in a livid, possessive line from Scorpius' Adam's apple to the ridge of his clavicle, nuzzling into Scorpius's underarm and lapping at the tang of salt he finds there, dropping kisses onto Scorpius' mouth until he feels tears prickle behind his closed eyes from the sweetness of yearning. 

And then, after what feels like forever, when Harry has teased him open and nudged inside him and then fucked him full; after all that, finally—finally!—Harry whispers, "Come for me, Malfoy," his voice a low rumble of desire, and Scorpius _does_, just like that, swearing and shaking, his thighs alight with the trickle of Harry's come as it runs out of him.

* * *

The satisfaction is still running slow and syrupy through him when the Floo chimes, then flames green to admit a visitor. Harry stands to greet them, but his face is impassive, and he hasn't even done his fly up, for fuck's sake. Scorpius can see the silvery trails of his own come drying in the dark line of hair that disappears into the gape of Harry's jeans. He looks debauched, and dangerous, and more undone than Scorpius could ever have imagined him. 

The voice that comes from the direction of the fireplace is the last one that Scorpius would have expected, but he'd recognise it anywhere. His dad sounds...cheerful, relaxed—oddly comfortable—when he calls out, "Sorry I'm late, Potter! The queue at the takeaway was out the door. _And_ I nearly forgot the naan, had to go…"

His voice tails off, and Scorpius chances a peek over the top of the couch. His father is still in front of the fireplace, and he's staring at Harry like he's never seen him before. His hands are clutching grease-shiny brown paper bags, and Scorpius can see his knuckles whitening up as his hands tighten. Draco can't seem to stop his gaze running hungrily over Harry's body, from his swollen mouth, to the heft of his shoulders, to the taut line of the skin of his stomach. When he notices the open jeans, he flushes instantly.

Draco's voice, when he speaks, is unsteady, rough with desire and hope. 

"Potter, I...do you want..."

Carefully, without taking his eyes off Harry, he sets the bags down and walks towards Harry. His gaze is greedy, expectant.

Harry smiles viciously, and he approaches the fireplace with an insolent swagger. "Nice to see you again, Malfoy. Second time this week, isn't it? I was just thinking how well we've been getting on recently. Great, isn't it, two old enemies mending fences, enjoying each other's company?" Draco's expression clouds just a fraction, and his eyes grow sharp and wary at Harry's tone.

"Funny how your new-found desire for my friendship came about around the time that our case was coming up to trial. That was convenient, wasn't it? Though you did a very good job of making it convincing, didn't you?" For the first time tonight, the thread of cruelty is gone from his voice. Without it, he just sounds bereft.

"I trusted you, you prick. Would _you_ have fucked me, too? What else would you have done to get your hands on those files, I wonder?"

Draco gapes in confusion, hurt and humiliation vying with his natural reserved demeanor. Scorpius thinks it might be time to wrap this whole thing up now. It's getting uncomfortable. He shifts on the couch, and clears his throat. 

"Oh yes, Scorpius was just leaving," Harry says brightly, and then snaps his fingers. Scorpius' clothes come flying across the room to land in his lap. Draco turns to look then, sees him on the couch for the first time, and Scorpius can pinpoint the moment when incomprehension turns to understanding, as Draco catalogues the vivid trail of stubble burn running along Scorpius' jaw, and the bruises—that could only have come from a mouth—that stand out against the creamy skin of Scorpius' throat. 

Draco takes a step back, and he turns as white as bone. For such a formidable lawyer, calm and implacable under the worst grilling from the Wizengamot, he's never been able to hide his feelings around Harry Potter. Hurt wars with something ugly—could it be jealousy?—before he schools his features into something resembling disdain, though there's a tremble to his mouth that keeps giving him away. At least his voice, when he speaks again, is steady.

"You fucked my son, Potter?"

Harry laughs at that, and then he moves in close and predatory so his mouth brushes Draco's cheek as he speaks. 

"You sent your son to whore for you, Malfoy. I saw him, when I went to get the wine glasses, rifling through my papers, reading classified files, running a _Gemino_ on restricted documents. And then, even after he got what he thought he had been looking for, he gave me that pretty arse of his anyway. He _does_ look just like you, you know. Except for the scars, of course."

Draco flinches as though he's been hit. 

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potter. I told him to try and get a bit information out of you, anything we could use. I knew he'd be round here to see Albus, I needed something—anything!—to get Lancroner off. I thought he'd get you chatting, see if you let anything slip while you were off-guard. I didn't mean...I would _never_ have asked him to…" and he turns to Scorpius despairingly, his voice a stark appeal, "I _told_ you, nothing illegal, Scorpius! This is not how we do things!"

Harry has to clear his throat and wet his lips before he speaks, and when he does, it's as though Scorpius isn't even in the room.

"You didn't know? You didn't send him to fuck the info out of me?"

Draco blanches, shakes his head minutely, and Scorpius knows that the undeniable truth of it is written in every line of hurt on his face.

"You did this on purpose?" Draco's words are barely a whisper, but they fall like stones in the heavy silence of the room. "You asked me here to see you with him? If I had been here on time, you'd have still been inside him."

Shame doesn't look good on Harry. He's not used to it, clearly, and it gives him an edge of sullenness that makes him seem younger, all of a sudden.

Harry and Draco are staring at each other now, both of them mired in guilt and humiliation and rage. Scorpius loves his father, he really does, but the man has always been completely daft when it comes to Harry Potter. At least the feeling seems to be mutual. 

He coughs discreetly again. "It's really very simple, Dad, Harry" he says, as he pulls his trousers on in one swift, elegant move, and stands to shrug into his shirt. 

"Did you think I hadn't noticed the way you look at my father, Harry? We needed something from you. It didn't work out, okay, but it was worth a gamble. You think you're untouchable, unknowable? You're _stupid_, Harry, stupid and blind. Do you really believe that he'd _ever_ send me to fuck you? Look at him—he can't even bear the thought of it. No, that plan was all mine." 

He pauses, allowing himself time to finish buttoning and tucking his shirt. "I didn't expect you to give it up so willingly, though. I turn up in Dad's suit, open the top button of my shirt—it shouldn't have been that easy. And I have to wonder, why would you jump straight to the conclusion that my dad was trying to set you up? You can't think all _that_ highly of him, if you think he'd do something like that. It's like you don't know him at all."

He walks between them towards the Floo, but stops and places a hand on his father's shoulder. "For what it's worth, Dad, I'm sorry. I wanted that win. We _needed_ that win. I thought I could get that for us."

Draco raises his hand, his palm a cool press along Scorpius' cheek. He can't quite meet Scorpius' eyes. 

"Don't worry, my darling. I understand." 

Scorpius smiles at him, gives him a brief, hard hug, and takes a handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantelpiece. Harry stops him with an angry twitch of the hand, hard-faced and flint-eyed and ashamed.

"Scorpius, I…"

He never gets a chance to spit out whatever he was thinking of saying. Scorpius leans into him, hooks a finger into the belt loop of Harry's jeans, and tugs until he stumbles forward, too close yet again. 

"Not so _obvious_ now, am I, Potter?"

Practice makes perfect, he thinks. He turns to leave, touches his lips. He's pleased with how right the name finally feels falling from them, like contempt was so easily learned.

He won't be _Harry_ ever again. 

**Author's Note:**

> @tackytigerfic on Tumblr


End file.
